Smells like a Heist
by JamCBlade
Summary: Done for Fallout kink challenge. Dean has been alone in the Madre for one decade too many, so naturally, anything and everything the Courier does must somehow pertain towards him. Well, at least he chooses to think so.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **Done as a prompt for Fallout kink challenge. All characters belong to their representative owners, except this version of the Courier which is my own. Please, enjoy.

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**Smells like a Heist**

Part I

**Villa**

- The Cloud -

_"Get up without my permission, I'll blast your ass so far through your head, it'll turn the moon cherry pie red."_

_**- Dean Domino**_

**Chapter 1**

Puesta del Sol

The cloud was still, thick at places and curling around columns and collapsed walls. She found it strange and unsettling at first. But then she realized – there was no wind in Sierra Madre. The Courier licked her lips and ran her tongue across the rooftop of her mouth. God said the air tasted like copper. Old. Older than some of the vaults she had been in, and yet, this place still held the appearance of barely having seventy years on it. Some walls and roofs were torn down but she suspected those came from deliberate action – like with explosives.

"Just because the ghosts can't see further than their noses doesn't mean they won't find us if you keep lollygagging out in the open."

Dean's explosives, for example. Although other 'tourists' could have helped demolition along the way.

The Courier focused her attention at the far end of the street. There was a ghost creature there, near the small fountain. It shuffled, eerie green glow of its mask leaving trails as it jumped a fair distance and – sniffed the air, she thought was the appropriate term. Focusing on the Cloud behind it she spotted several more pairs of irradiated green dots shuffling through the red haze. There was no questioning her tracking skills or her Pip-Boy's tracking program. A pack was on the hunt.

For all intents and purposes that way was blocked to her – well, her and the singer; and unless those things spread out long enough for her to pass through the Cloud infested square littered with traps, it was rooftops for her again. Not a bad option, except she really wanted to get into that building they've taken to guarding.

The Courier watched them gather and go around setting traps when one raised its head in her direction. She was fairly certain that it couldn't see her – proved by the fact that she had already managed to move passed them in these tightly knotted streets – but this one kept focus on her location for longer than she was comfortable with.

Keeping low she pulled herself from behind of the dead tree's bench, and back around the pillars to the entryway of the café, where the old ghoul waited near slightly ajar door. It was set in prime position for Dean to slip in and shut them tight at the first sight of a 'local' deciding to take a stroll down their ally with couple of 'friends'. Under cover of the Cloud they both slid inside and barred the door settling at either side of them, listening. Outside was deathly silence, interrupted only by a distant sound of heavy hissing breath, shuffling of large boots and an occasional clang of a bear trap being dragged against cobblestone.

Bear traps? Why _did _the Sierra Madre have a supply of bear traps? The singer had no answer for her. No agreeable answer.

The thing moved next to café's door, stopped and abruptly sounds of metal against metal, and metal against stone were heard. The low commotion and tinkering, along with grunts and wheezing lasted for a few long moments before slowly disappearing down the twisting streets. Both Dean and the Courier shared a look, realizing that the Ghost People have probably left a few presents for them right outside the door – complete with snares that would take away their legs in one bite. Another path was blocked to them.

Still, the traps were outside and they were inside so they, or at least the Courier did, allowed themselves a moment to catch their breath, and relax for a bit.

Pale light of the hologram standing idly behind the counter reflected on Dean's sunglasses and her black helmet as they stared at each other. Dean quickly stood up pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his tuxedo. Smoke curled around his face and there was a sound of deep sigh – possibly of relief but the former star would be hardly pressed to admit to it.

"That was too close for my comfort," he said and rested his hands on the counter. It was the only place in the building with some decent light in it. It was also a small comfort that those creatures outside were afraid, or venerated or some other nonsense like that; of holograms enough not to check which were the ones to actually shot lasers out of their heads.

"Why fret?" the Courier called from her place by the door, her voice muffled by that darn helmet and her head bowed over her pip-boy as she tapped one button after the other. "You know better than anyone of us how blind they are."

"Yes. I also _know_ that they outnumber us like a wasp hive outnumbers a tarantula…" he paused, sarcasm losing its speed a bit with the lack of a better analogy, "Or whatever that prey may be. This is not the first time your nose poking into every corner had me almost killed. What has possessed you to go through every brick like a starved hippo?" He turned, glaring behind his sunglasses at the nigh invisible hunched figure in the black suit of armor.

In truth, she had managed to snuck up to more than a few lone locals and disable them in a rather gory manner which would insure them never rising up again; and thus ensuring his own increasing survival rate – but still! Dean would not even be in this situation had she not insisted to take the _long_ way around, passing through every door not nailed shut or taped down, crossing every roof that looked marginally capable of holding _her_ weight, making the damn collar beep by going on into the parts unknown, perusing her useless scavenger hunt… Oh, she had singlehandedly invited death by explosion, the Ghost People dragging him away and heart attack. The way things were going he just had to pick the lottery ticket and pray his death would be a painless one.

But Dean Domino had not survived as long as he did in the Villa by taking the long way around if it happened to be littered with undying monstrosities from the depths of whatever place that cooked up the Cloud. Or by letting some tourist yank his explosive leash left and right at her suicidal whim in search of… paper scraps.

"The way you act, you could almost persuade me into thinking that you've never went scavenging before," she said quickly pushing one such small scrap of paper she had found earlier back into one of her many pockets. Dean noticed immediately, both it and how she slipped past his question and he was not pleased in the least. The tourist was up to something. He didn't know if it involved him – and for the sake of his own hide he decided to presume that it did – but he would not let it come that far.

"Puesta del Sol isn't in the top five list of my choices I'd go to even if I had to." He pointed at her accusingly, "It was your insisting on sticking out like a sour thumb that has us boxed in here."

The Courier waved her hand dismissively and settled on the opposite side of the counter, sliding through the silent dealer. The holographic head played shadows and left quickly diminishing imprints on smooth surface of her black helmet – like a fake, always smiling face. It was needlessly creepy, and Dean had the guts to admit it to himself. "We'll use the rooftops," she said, "I'll get you to your stage in time for the main event. It's not like Elijah can start the show without you." Black helmet tilted to the side as she leaned over the counter and watched him.

"I suppose I don't have anything to worry about then, do I? Oh, except several hundreds of Ghost People swarming this roof in droves once the band starts playing," he snapped spitefully already seeing the disaster for the 'odd man out' play out. He had _no_ plans for letting that happen, let him tell you… When he looked up from his musings preoccupied with death and ensuring he would not die, she was not there at the receiving end of his complaint.

"I sincerely doubt there are hundreds of Ghost People out there," her voice, muffled as it was, came from bellow. She was, in long respected tradition of any wastelander, rummaging through the cupboards under the counter. "They can't reproduce," the Courier didn't believe that the scientists of Big MT, absolutely bonkers as they were, had the foresight to install _that kind_ of program in the Trauma Override Harness, "and from what you've told me more people die a safe death out here," one hand peeped up, gesturing vaguely at the front door, "than get dragged away by them."

"How very optimistic of you…"

Some junk food, along with some tin cans plopped on the counter noisily, interrupting him.

"So unless the empty suits have mutated to the point they can breed I don't think you have too much to worry about."

"Is that so? Sure glad one of us knows what you're doing." 'Thick with sarcasm' didn't even begin to cover the tone of his voice. He knew she was deluding herself because experience had taught him otherwise. What she had said might make sense – or indeed, _would_ make sense, had they been trapped in any other place but here. Except they weren't. They were in Sierra Madre. And Sierra Madre had a life of her own, a rhythm one had to follow or die. The tourist had better learned to tap-dance to it fast or his head will be up for grabs along with hers.

"Now, how about treating me with some of that famous martini of yours?" She shook a foul smelling jug and there was something of a grin in her voice. He assumed so since he couldn't see it. With a downturn of his lips he pulled a cigar hanging from the corner and snuffed it out in a nearby ashtray, before taking the offered pitcher.

"I'll have you know, I don't make a habit of serving drinks to others," he said in a flat tone.

"Just this once. I won't cross the line and ask of you to be nice again." Courier's voice, tingling with a grin as it did, didn't exclude the possibility of a 'much' following that sentence.

One exposed muscle under his right eye took a moment to tic. This was already the longest heist of his life, but Dean was confident that he could endure a little more of this tag-along game, this… frustrating creature that called herself, he snorted, the Courier – before the vault laid sprawled open before him.

Dean Domino could be a _very_ patient man when he set his mind to it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **I'd like to take a moment and mention that english is not my native language, so spelling and grammar mistakes are bound to happen. I'd also like to say that this story is planned as a slow thing: slow buildup, slow everything.

Thank you all for reading.

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**Chapter 2**

It was a welcomed break. Tense as all hell, but still welcome. Sierra Madre didn't offer much opportunity for rest outside of that safe haven Dean had cultivated over the years. Not that 'safe' and 'Madre' could possibly exist in the same sentence, or the same universe for that matter, Dean pondered while mixing drinks, a foul-smelling concoction that it was.

As he pulled out couple of glasses he glanced at where she had leaned against the bar and under the light of the hologram spread out all the paper and holotapes she had found so far. It wasn't too bad to have someone watch his back, he mused; and having a partner was, for the heist of this size, a must for him to pull it through successfully. The potential bother that she was roped _into _being his partner didn't even begin to make a registered step across his mind. After all, charm, clever wit and a bit of persuasion here and there were required to get his previous partner to commit fully to the heist.

Now, that the things he _could_ control were well underway to be roped in tightly, he turned to the elephant in the room. The old man. Dean hadn't counted on him. He hadn't counted on him showing up in Sierra Madre let alone shackling _him_ into similarly demeaning position as well. He didn't like it.

Still, Dean didn't consider himself particularly fussy. If he was, he wouldn't have gotten past his first gig in the entertainment industry. No, no, he would take what he could get. Until the opportunity presented itself and he could take something better. One step at the time, and with a patience of a veteran safari hunter was how he worked.

She raised her helmet a bit so she could take a drink. He took notice of it instantly. He could see her lips, dried and cracked but nicely shaped, and there was a thin scar snaking around her chin, up until it disappeared into the shadows. She still had all her teeth – that he could see – and that surprised him. He wouldn't think that anything like dental hygiene still existed, never mind the constant dangers of living involved. Thick shadow covering upper part of her face left quite a lot to the imagination. For all he knew her face could be peeled off, and she could have a cleanly polished skull from her nose up.

It was a fleeting glance, but at least he knew she didn't _appear_ to be like him. A ghoul. It took some time getting used to the slang when the first tourists appeared in Sierra Madre couple of decades ago. He was still Dean Domino. Lack of skin did not change who the man was inside. Maybe, just maybe, it made it more apparent.

The visor came down and what she had allowed to show of her face disappeared under the black surface reflecting hologram's static face. He understood the need to be covered head-to-toe in protective gear in a place that had a habit of killing its visitors at every corner, twist, alleyway, catwalk, roof, room and toilet. The very air of Madre could kill. But why wouldn't she dignify him and raise her visor when they spoke was beyond him. As a matter of fact, it was frustrating. And it became infuriating the moment he had noticed that she had, in fact, revealed her face fully whenever talking to the mutant.

Didn't he deserve a bit of professionalism on her part? It wouldn't hurt to have to look your partner in the eye before shooting them. He still held some pride in his good manners.

Not that he was planning to do any of that. Yet. He had bigger fish to fry.

"What are you so possessed of collecting that requires of you to look under every staircase?" He asked after she had finished slugging her drink down, like it was some kind of third-rate cider, and kept on looking over her pip-boy. Her hand came up and she showed him.

"I was reading about what happened in this place."

'_Liquor shipment finally came in today - didn't realize working here would be like working in a dry state. Just need to keep it out of sight of security and Sinclair, and ought to take the edge off the day, keep it stashed in the back.'_

And then the other, _'One thing about the liquor they're shipping in, it's making somebody talk - the big man came down today and told us that we have a sweet deal set up, and one slipped word in front of security can bring this all crashing down... for real.'_

"_Bootlegging?!_" Of all the things to put his life in danger for…! This was a good cause – as were many others, but that wasn't important now! – for Dean Domino to get more than just a bit livid. "You dragged_ me_ all over this deathtrap so you could read about a band of morons who thought to profit of Sinclair's stuck up idiocy?!"

Black helmeted face rose to meet his. "Really? You don't think living in the Madre for two hundred years was a death sentence in on its self?" She cut in calmly. "These were scattered along the way," she gestured at her loot.

Dean's jaw tightened. She plucked on a sour note in there somewhere. He had his reasons for staying – some _very good_ reasons – none of which he had to place before her feet. "I don't need you criticizing my choices. Or are you trying to say that the rest of the world is better off? Mojave? Has it miraculously survived free of mutated monstrosities?"

Black helmet kept staring. What was a mutated monstrosity to Dean, was a domestic animal to the local farmers. But she took a wild stab in the dark and guessed that he didn't know that. Then she snorted, "Far from it. But in its defense, the Mojave at least allows for the opportunity and more space to avoid any _monstrosity_ that sees you as lunch. It also doesn't have Ghost People and the lack of Cloud is also… a blessing…" and then she went back to strangely well-preserved paper, her voice trailing off and her mind going over the sudden ideas swarming in her head like baby cazadores.

Again they fell into simmering silence. It happened to them a lot. Two stubborn bighorners vying for the spot at the front of the heard – the lead position in this case. And even if what he was currently doing consisted mostly of _following_, curtsy of that bearded lunatic who had strapped bomb collars on him and then placed _her_ in charge, Dean still liked to think of himself as someone with an upper hand. He had the knowledge the old man lacked.

"If…" she started slowly, and Dean's eyebrow arched at the tame tone she had suddenly taken. "If these vending machines could create anything out of a single chip," a prospect which was fascinating her, "why the need for the black market?"

"Why? Because not everyone could get what they needed from those little toy boxes. Or what they wanted." When her black helmet just kept staring at him like some miniature black monolith, the ghoul deigned to elaborate, "They could only produce things that were hard built into their programming. Chems, for instance, were available only to selected personnel, usually medical. Guns and other weapons were restricted to security here; although, from what I've seen, Sinclair's chefs could do more damage with a single knife than a whole rodeo show of local officers," he added in afterthought before looking at the sickly colored liquid at the bottom of his glass almost as if memories have pooled down there. "You couldn't even get a bottle of decent wine unless you had special authorization code."

For which one had to pay heavily in the casino, obviously.

"Sinclair made sure all the money went to one place. Called it self-sufficient, or something like that. He favored his little puppet and light show," his voice trailed off.

She listened to him speak, tell a tale of old world. Dean had a soothing voice… when he wanted. Not comparable to softness of Graham's, and one had to ignore the constant note of superiority woven across and in-between, but all in all, she could see why people would flock to listen to him sing. His personality certainly didn't bring in the money.

They sat in silence surrounded by pale light, resting. Recovering. It was a place of safety in a very mad world.

"Don't you feel very grateful for that puppet show right about now?" She asked and the hologram beside them flickered, as if it knew that it was a topic of conversation.

Dean picked up his cigarette from the ashtray, and an exhaled veil of smoke enveloped them. "They make for better company than most other people, that's for sure."

There was no question about _who_ those other people were. Though, it could not be excluded that in the case of Dean Domino that could easily mean _everyone_ else.

"Of course they do," she answered.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all for reading.

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**Chapter 3**

Dean didn't like _not_ being in control. For so long he had watched outsiders stagger into Sierra Madre, die by their own hand, their friend's hand or that of unforgiving surroundings, while for two centuries, he had survived all the dangers the Villa had thrown at him.

Oh, he had been in tight spots before. In Sierra Madre, waking up alive in the morning didn't guarantee your evening will be just as fortunate. But that was just him and his quick wits in a life and 'not dying tonight' predicament. Not a bomb around his neck, not some girl, and an old man on the radio dictating where he should go, what he should do, how to do it… An old man who had discovered how to enter the casino in a matter of months while he had been languishing in this hole for-

He stopped himself. Now was not the time for that. This was a golden opportunity and, since he obviously wasn't going to miss a single moment of this happening, he was determent to use it the very best he knew how. Soon, he will finally be able to enter the casino and after that… well, he had plan in place. He just had to be present to execute it. Dean looked down at his drink and then up the woman sitting with back to him. He'd question her sense of self-preservation but this suited him fine for when the time came.

There was also the question of his new 'bow tie' but he figured he'd cross, burn and bomb that bridge once he got to it.

"So, who's Danny Parker?" She asked cutting his marching thought process in half. To his credit, he didn't slip or perform any remotely embarrassing overreaction at this most unexpected question.

"That's a bloody odd question to ask now of all times. What prompted this on?" He asked curiously in turn, because he really couldn't think of any reason why anyone would ever ask about that weasel. He couldn't think of any reason why anyone would even know about Danny Parker, of all people, today.

Her shoulders made a deceptive little shrug, "You keep mentioning him. And in a way that makes me think it involved a bullet and his head."

The ghoul was silent for a long moment. And if it wasn't… it certainly seemed like a long moment to him. The question was out of the blue, but it sparked something in him. Some little need to _talk_.

"Danny Parker… There wasn't a person alive," he paused briefly and corrected himself, "alive at the time, who didn't want to put at least one bullet in that empty head of his. Some would have gladly paid for more than one." He chuckled, images flashing behind his eyes. Memories from before the war, before the bomb, of people he worked with, people he saw nightly, some of them insufferable, others he just hated – memories of happier, better, _different_ times.

She remained silent, choosing instead to turn and lean on her elbows and forearms and look at him curiously, if curious could be attributed to a blank helmet. A rapt audience – if there was one thing he never got tired of… "Danny Parker was one, if not _the_, penny-pinching men of his time. He wasn't an artist, not like I. Money was his only passion, and singing was a yellow-brick road to gaining a whole lot more of it. The cheap, catchy tunes he sang, the polished appearance of a mannequin in boutique store – all of it! Just to squeeze a penny more from the audience, from his agent, even from the record house. And it showed in his performances."

The Courier wasn't sure how much she should believe him – not the bit about his alleged greed; greed had survived the war perfectly fine and was busily working its way into the new world. It was that Dean Domino didn't seem like someone who tolerated people on the best of days for some very strange reasons.

"Was he a competition for you?" She asked.

"_Competition?!_" The ghoul's head snapped up faster than an angry radscorpion's tail. "Are you mad?! Danny Parker couldn't string five notes together and make them sound like cats rutting, let alone make music," he bolstered loudly. "Competition, she says," he snorted under his breath lighting another cigar. "As if."

"That so? His posters, those who aren't singed and still readable show him playing-…"

Dean's brain short-circuited at 'poster' and completely ignored the rest of her words. Like doused in water, the cigar sagged at the corner of his lips. "Come again?"

"What was that thing called… – a piano, yes! I remember thinking it was too bulky for an instrument to be convenient. Anyway, not to drag on, he seemed rather popular, considering the…"

"Hold on! Let me get this straight," he let out a little self-deprecating laugh and his voice took on the menacing tone if she ever heard one coming from him. And in the past day or so she had heard him pull some nasty implications and threats through the tenor of his voice, even when the actual words he used were sugar sweet. "You're telling me that Danny Parker's posters have survived the nuclear blast."

The Courier realized, albeit too late, that she had stepped on the territory not unlike a minefield. She had already detonated a large one and had to thread very carefully not to offset any more that could blow up in her face. "I've seen a few around," she started diplomatically, "on old buildings and such…" Casinos too. Theaters . Other previously important and prominent places. Of course, Danny Parker's were not the only ones hanging there, but that was a can of two hundred years old food she'd rather avoid opening if possible.

"Well, how utterly _marvelous_! There's no justice or just deserts in this world." But he knew that already. That was why he had sat out to make his own justice so long ago. He leaned against the bar, fingers digging into decorative prewar marble. Sharp and predatory, his eyes narrowed on her. She had a feeling where this was going. "Well then, _courier_, how about you tell me of other-…"

Quite to surprise of both of them, maybe relief of one and immense annoyance of one, there was a loud thump on the floor above, and in the silence of the resort that gasping and heavy breathing was instantly recognizable. The Ghost People have entered the building.

Sierra Madre had sharpened the old singer's reflexes but even Dean was surprised when his bowtie was yanked roughly and he tumbled over the counter with an ugly remark regarding any further tearing in his suit, as heavy and clumsy steps clobbered down the stairs. His back was pressed tightly against the bar's wall, the clicking and snorting sounds grew louder as the creature shuffled closer.

She pressed against him, body flushed against his, one of her legs sliding between his and his bowtie still held in a tight fist as she forced him to lay low, almost forced the breath out of his lungs in effort to keep him silent. And Dean was quiet. Dean was very quiet. Their earlier conversation, something about posters and stingy, incompetent weasels from the past – puff! Completely forgotten. Gone with the wind. And it was not all because a creature of nightmares had finished stumbling down the stairs, moved close to the wall and around the corner. Threat of fate worse than death hung heavy in the air around them, but even in a moment like this his body seemed to delight in making observations that had no business coming to forefront of his mind.

For example; the way her bulky armor wasn't all that bulky to begin with. Or how judging by the shape underneath, which he was trying to focus _away_ from curtsy of one of Sierra Madre's local residents, she was in fact smaller than him and not, as it first appeared towering over him from every shadow, a creature of bloated proportions. Or how that shape was something he had not seriously thought about in relation to himself in any way for a long, long time. One could say that her outer layer of armored padding was designed with a sole purpose to fool anyone into believing she was all block of meat and bulletproof material. That's how Dean chose to interpret it anyway, seeing how he fell for it.

He saw holorifle slide off her shoulder and her ready it; and even with his brain making sharp deviations left, right and more importantly – down, no thanks to the rude, rude, _rude_ invasion of his personal space her thigh seemed to insist on, he pulled out his knife, because he knew that once she's done blowing holes in ghost's suit he'd be the one to cut them apart. Not a perfect arrangement – he preferred dismembering them from safe distance, with fire, lights and accompanying sound effects, but even he had to agree that anything was better than the ghosts getting up again, and again, and right when their backs are turned.

Fortunately for both of them, the moment it noticed the hologram which turned towards the new prospective customer, even one simple one programmed to act as vendor, the creature let out a hissing sound that could only be described as startled nightstalker in the way of a rampaging deathclaw, and started to pull back.

The Courier used the opportunity and all but knocked Dean out of her way roughly as she dashed low. Butt of her holorifle came up and connected with creature's head knocking it backwards and forcing it to stumble back. Even rattled with fear as it was, it still whizzed threateningly and swung with its arm with a bear trap strapped on it. She ducked, avoiding it and with a flip of her wrist brought her gun up, pointblank with creature's head and neck, and before it could react a one, two, three, four shots were heard and a spray of white fluid covered her helmet.

The body collapsed and with a few steps she skipped over it and was up the stairs to make sure no others followed the straggler. And also to close any doors whatever _draft_ may have opened. Dean had just pulled himself up from separating the head from the rest of thing's body when her measured steppes were heard as she came back down. She joined him and crouched over the suited body.

"I wouldn't go digging through that, partner. It's not a pretty sight. And it doesn't offer anything of use. Believe me, I looked." It was during one of his more desperate moments, as he recalled. His finger waded between the collar and his neck, trying to push it back, unsuccessfully, and make room for some air. He was still rattled, not that he would show, but he was – by the speed with which _this_ happened, and by whatever _that_ was which came before the monster trashed through the building. He didn't know if he wanted to go into the deep muddy waters and decipher what had happened – he certainly did, just not right now – but when the girl stretched back up that choice was made for him.

"You're right. But, before we go, I just have to say, you make one killer martini," she said with an approving, _unnervingly pleased_ chuckle. "Now… where were we? I know we can leave through the upstairs' room…" her voice trailed off and Dean noticed the clear sound of it.

His head shot towards her just in time to see the woman lower the visor on her helmet and catch the glimpse of a smug, self-satisfying, utterly _competent_ smirk which rang that too-close-to-home bell. It had all the effect of a whiplash on Domino's mood.

In his mind, there was no pit deep or dark or _hellish_ enough, for Sinclair to rot in for all the times to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you all for reading.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

They moved out after that, through the upstairs' room and with a bit more strength to them. At first they crawled along the rooftops, but were later forced to descend to the street level. Red haze covered everything as the Cloud was particularly thick in Puesta del Sol and that made bear traps littering the streets like waste, all the more dangerous. That they had to cross all the way to reach the southern side of the district didn't help their position.

"Where there's a bear trap, Ghost People aren't far behind," coming up beside her Dean warned in such a flat tone and the Courier's shoulders rolled as she rearranged weight from one foot to another, avoiding grime colored snares. She didn't pause in her steps, just as the centuries old ghoul followed her steps across the cobblestone in perfect synchronization, but she lacked the presence to notice that as her mind kept making a full circle while she mulled over the tight spot that kept winding down on her. Two fingers drummed on the, even now slowly turning red, casing of her pip-boy as the black helmet turned in the shadows. The Cloud was starting to leave a mark on her equipment.

Behind and to the side off her just as they passed a small fountain, she spotted him light another cigar – bite into it almost, a quick conspicuous flash of orange amidst rust red. This was the fifth Dean had in the past hour, and the only one he managed to finish, the rest being deposed in various ways that involved minor crushing or all-out mayhem. His snide remarks have trickled to almost a standstill – almost, and what little he did offer was more acidic than acerbic. And the Courier was not oblivious to this.

When it came to Dean, she was not sure whether to think of him as frightening or just mad. Not Elijah mad, not the explosion of insanity ready to take over like a whirlwind of nuclear blast - but the slow burn that ate the people away from the inside over the years. He had _chosen_ to stay in this hellhole and knew this city, its traps and pitfalls the same way she knew the secret back-roads through the Deathclaw infested quarry. And she didn't like it. God, with all his tightly focused aggression and muscles to rival a Securitron, was a safer bet to have at her back than the ghoul.

She still had to admit, it was a feat, or a miracle, that he had survived alone in this place for two centuries. This, in retrospect, only proved that one should not stay alone in the room with him; particularly, any chairs, or any other frequently used piece of furniture, he had been left alone with should be thoroughly checked for methods of mass destruction.

Ironically, it was thanks to the bomb collars of all things, that she felt safe enough to turn her back on him now.

She managed to steal a glance of the sour singer who seemed to alter between deciding whether to throw one of the saturnite knives at her back or stare off into the Cloud. He was like that, she noticed, running hot and cold, and sometimes both at the same time. But hot and cold was not accurate enough to describe Dean's current state.

Her mind turned to the exact moment of meeting him, his polite offer to 'put her feet up', explosives rigged chair and all. And she remembered how seriously she had considered shoving that overblown ego of his so far down his throat the collar wouldn't be able to make a peep. But she had relaxed and decided, not now. Let him be pleasantly surprised when Elijah broke the news to his delicate sense of self-worth, so she could watch his mouth gape wide open under the haunting light of Villa's holograms where the severity of the situation finally dawned on him. She was woman enough to admit that she was petty enough sort, and the look on his face when he realized that the bomb collars were now linked, as opposed the time when no hell or high water could've made the scavengers cooperate, made her wish for a functional camera.

His presence by now was starting to feel like a little threatening cloud of its own, hanging on her back. It was becoming noticeable, distracting. Sierra Madre liked to punish distraction with death. In all her time as a courier, she had never worked quite as hard as she did on the quickest way to deposit the 'Dean Domino' package on that marked roof.

"Is there any particular reason why we're going the long way around?" She heard him call, with a well-placed sneer she did not bother to look at. His inquiry was likely referring to the way they have managed to avoid patrols but still went further out of their way. It was too much to hope that he wouldn't notice. Domino likely knew this town of his with grand intimacy – where every pebble was; where each smear that the Cloud had left in its wake was.

"I'm scavenging," was the simplest reply she could give.

"We're well supplied." For this, latest episode of 'survival of the fittest', at least.

"For information."

"Information? About what?" Now she was getting preposterous!

"About what had happened here. I would have thought that was obvious."

"The bomb happened. I would have thought _that much more_ obvious." His derisive snort was followed by 'tourist' in combination with something really unflattering.

The Courier was certain that she had done _something_ to offend him, the whole poster ordeal notwithstanding because she had a feeling that _will_ come back to bite her eventually. No, this was something bigger, deeper; but she didn't know what it could be and wasn't about to press the issue. Not when the street ahead of them had a pack of mutated suits on the hunt.

She signaled him to follow her into the shadows and he did so without a word - without a complaint, which did nothing for the growing unease between them. There was a large patch of Cloud ahead which they could use as a cover until the Ghost People shuffled off to the other end of the building. They rushed through it as fast as they could, balancing trying not to get noticed and not die of poisoning as she felt her lungs burn and be crushed in equal measure.

Sticking to the wall they crawled along the buildings, always some distance behind the locals who seemed insistent to follow the same path the two of them were heading. Maybe this was the same pack that had tried to corner them in the café. If so, it was good they weren't persistent enough to have tried and invade the building through the other entrance beyond sending just that one creature.

She breathed more easily, and as shallow as the Cloud allowed, when their paths ultimately diverged.

Constantly checking her pip-boy for location, the marker showed they were very close but with twisting streets and more often than not barred doors, but finding that path proved more and more an exercise in futility. One would think that it would be accessible from the top but not all roofs were connecting in such a way that would allow them to cross safely, while on the other end, some of the Villa's balconies have collapsed blocking otherwise direct passageways. She understood now what those messages about Sinclair ignoring all the construction that didn't involve his darling casino meant. Not even the Cloud, with its strange capacity for conservation, could preserve shoddy construction and keep the walls 'glued with spit' upright.

"We may have a problem," she said zooming in and out her map, cursing its path-finding, and turned to the ghoul who was, quite nonchalantly, smoking a cigar with one hand in his pocket – a commercial picture of someone feeling right at home in this place. That alone should be enough to produce ice in anyone's stomach. "Do you know of any building with an intact staircase that would get us up?"

There was no answer.

"Dean?" She called, fine flat line of her patience not wavering.

"I don't frequent Puesta del Sol much. As in, at all." He paused, drawing in smoke like some kind of dragon, and looking over the seemingly empty street. And he knew, as well as she had learned, that standing around idly could only end badly for them. Despite that, he continued leisurely, "I do, however, remember an explosion from a few decades back. A couple of tourists took a wrong turn and headed straight from the front gate here." His voice had this tone of boredom but it was a ruse, he positively delighted in dispensing these little bits of wisdom and experience. "They were well equipped, for people who crawled out of the wastes - I mean, I was surprised that they weren't crawling on _all fours!_ …But they did manage to blast through half the town before the dust settled. They died, of course, but the distraction did allow me a clear way to… well, quite a few places actually. They managed to hold against the Ghost People all night, you see."

"Good on them," she clicked her tongue. Arrogant ass had to turn something simple as asking for directions into performance and an act of groveling at his feet. And of course the people in the wastes didn't go around on all four. …The good majority of them didn't. "And could you tell me where the site of this explosion might be?"

He paused, taking a long, languid drag, letting smoke curl and mix with red cloud. It was the type of pause the Courier herself had on occasion inflicted upon others – although never in combination of a bomb strapped to their throats.

He looked around slowly, taking in the scenery, drinking in the atmosphere. His eyes stuck to the old wooden terraces and perilously dangling blinds that would have fallen off long ago had it not been for the mystical properties of the Cloud.

"If I ever had to come here I stuck to the overhangs and roofs – like sidewalks up here."

"Yes, they've certainly been helpful so far," she answered slowly, a measured response while dancing around gunpowder encrusted eggshells.

"The ghosts don't crawl up there much and it has a clear view. Clear enough, anyway," he continued, paying not the slightest bit of attention to her.

"…Domino…" she started, resisting the rising tide of wanting nothing more than to toss him towards the point he was preparing to make and was taking the long, red carpeted way around, but at the same time knowing by now how that was not a way to handle Dean Domino. Because to handle Dean Domino was to handle a bouquet made of sticks of dynamite with a long fuse. "If you'd kindly share anything you might have noticed at that time, it would be a fantastic help to open the casino. And survive."

This seemed to mollify him somewhat, mentioning of casino always did, and he pointed, to a wall tucked in between constricted streets and a row of archways, thick, red fog clogged the path... "Through there," …and a narrow but still decently man sized hole at the end of it.

"Thank you…" she said, properly, tightly, squeezed it through her teeth if one had a good ear, and quickly turned on her heel. That he riled her up wasn't what bothered her. That he managed to rile her up and so obviously intended to do it from the very start, _did_. The question of what she had done to rile him up, was steadily becoming paramount. She _needed_ to avoid any confrontation so long as this bomb was hanging around her neck. Once those were off, all bets would be off along with them.

They had to reach the second floor and path up, leading through demolished sitting-rooms, was obstructed by only a few traps – which was a clear signal that the Ghost People knew even about this little hidden away walkway - and less than scant few minutes later they were out in the open once more. Elijah's unmistakable voice came soon through her pip-boy. So he was tracking their position, she concluded with a frown. But could she track him back?

_:You're at the Ghoul's Gala are… now make him stay.:_

"So this is where I'm supposed to put on a show? Played at better venues, let me tell you," Dean called, a slight timbre in his voice and both of them walked over to a single cable stretching across the rooftop. Alone spark pranced on one end of the torn cable. "What is that there… wiring? Looks… looks like it's tied to the sound system in the Villa, except that snipped section."

Nurse passing the scalpel indeed. The girl sighed and pushed the helmet up a bit to rub her eyes. Elijah was going to kill them all at this rate.

"So… what, I stand here, hold the two ends in my hands and tap them together like cymbals?" She heard him say behind her, sneer and anger wrapped in one package.

"If re-connecting the speaker system is part of the Gala Event, yes," she turned pulling the visor down. She did it again, and it irked him but his focus was elsewhere now.

"Look…" he gestured wide at the rooftops, the area around them and his usually so controlled voice cracked just a notch with panic welling up at the possibilities. "I strike up the speaker system, there's going to be ghosts all over this place. Any change in the sounds around here… the Ghost People are not big on talking, they are big on listening. Hunting. Killing. More vicious than music critics, trust me."

Seeing how most of the musical critiques these days are usually settled with a bullet, she did not know what to make of that. She doubted it mattered.

"All right then, what's it going to take?" _Short of breaking your legs_, she thought feeling the aggravation settle in within her too. Her facial expression masked, Dean was fortunate not to see the direction her thoughts have taken her.

"Take?" He repeated insulted, as if she was offering his some meager penny for one of his most prized, _most expensive_ shows. "It's not going to take anything because you couldn't offer me anything to stay here. The Ghost People'll come out of the woodwork when the Gala Event starts blaring, and when they see me trapped up here? It's curtains for Dean."

Or they might lose their appetite at the mere sight of him and go back to the holes they crawled out from, was her line of thought. She was willing to bet the entire Lucky 38 that he wouldn't appreciate her view on things, and so kept them to herself.

"We'll set traps and hunt down those that are around. Will that make you feel safer?" She offered a solution, an olive branch – an old world expression she had read in a book once.

"No, you want to know why? Because there's more beneath the streets, in the buildings, and oh – everywhere else!" He flared, refusing and crossing his arms in pure defiance – or in fear, she took notice of his fingers clutching the worn-out sleeves of his evening suit, at the mere thought of staying here alone for prolonged periods of time. "Listen, you could offer me a steel clad contract for a world tour for all the major cities with Imperial Records and I still wouldn't stay here!" It is possible he actually stomped a foot there, but that would be too childlike and too petulant even for Dean, and so it had to be all in her imagination. His foot did move a little though.

The Courier turned away from Dean's fume and spit and old world references she couldn't quite decipher, and looked over the expense of the district. Fog of rust rubbed against them as it did against the buildings, slowly, languidly, like a perverse lover clutching and never letting go. It had blocked most of their view but from what little the Cloud allowed them to see she came to one conclusion,

"I predict an awful lot of backtracking in the near future."


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you all for reading.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Dean had taken residence on the only usable couch in the nigh destroyed room. There wasn't much else for him to do while she busied herself, trying to fix the terminal. He was not a tech expert and he had _ceremoniously_ refused to act as a human conductor until it was safe enough for him to remain on that roof; alone; for an extended period of time. Not that he needed to repeat himself to that woman; he had already made his position perfectly clear - wild horses and angry hippos couldn't drag him up to that roof and a pack of rabid wolves couldn't get him to stay. And the Villa was composed of critters far worse than that.

The woman in question sat behind the 200 year old terminal. Its screen kept flickering rapidly and occasionally a spark would fly off left and right, and in turn she would let out a quiet curse before reaching out for parts littered around her feet. She was busily at work to keep him safe. Just as she should have been doing right from the start, Dean nodded with a cantankerous huff of smoke, instead of rushing off to which ever corner offered the most tempting of dangers.

By this point the Courier, with fingers covered with prickly electric dirt, old grease and paper thin layers of red cloud, couldn't think of ways in which, when compared to the old singer, God or Christine would be able to cause more running around and pleasing and _compromising_ to stay in one spot. Even with her inquisitive need to know and learn how, why and what for – which, being the chief reason she now had a bomb collar around her neck, was why cursed herself repeatedly still for not preparing better when she _knew_ that Elijah had carried away a truckload of these from Big MT – she couldn't think of any other motive why she would try to boot-up an ancient terminal in place where being stationary for extended period of time spelled death otherwise.

And thus, here they were. At the broken down terminal, designed and installed to control the holograms, and all he could do was smoke. He'd like to find something to drink too, but he believed it was important to keep a clear mind in situations like this. His eyes kept turning to the window and a meager perimeter of explosives he had set up as a protection while she was being hampered down with work, but to Courier's mind it was more of a 'See, I offered some useful assistance as well,' show.

Dean sighed. Then, he had another cigar. And once more, he sighed, this time – loudly.

"How much longer is it going to take?"

The sound of wires and metal was his only answer.

"Sierra Madre isn't getting any younger," he prodded further.

"You _know_ you could have just stayed on the roof and waited for me to light the security up," she called from behind the desk. Her statement was followed by a clink of metal and a sound of terminal trying to establish connection, failing to do so and fizzling out. Also, there was another not so muffled curse worthy of a suburban taxi driver.

"Yeah, and what a prime position it is to get cornered in. Ghost People swarming in on all sides across roofs, the only way down blocked… Marvelous prospect. No, thank you."

She let out something that sounded like a strangled snort. The ghoul was paranoid beyond reason. Granted, he had a _very_ good reason to fuel all that paranoia, still… she had never expected her patience to be tried so thoroughly the way it was now. Strolling through Caesar's camp, in full view of raping marauders, wasn't as trying. Well, that's a lie. Partly. It wasn't as trying because she was well aware that the so-called legionaries couldn't touch her at the time. Those trained attack dogs wouldn't dare wag their tails without the great Caesar's permission.

With loud sound of terminal finally powering up, she stopped reminiscing and stood up, helmet back in place, naturally, rounded to stand in front of the screen. Just because the power was back on didn't mean that the connections between the holo-emitter, the terminal or even the software for security hologram had survived.

"There weren't any packs close to the building. Or that rooftop. I have ways of tracking them," she dusted off her hands across her pants finally and switched off the pip-boy's flashlight. Its casing and screen now reflected only a dull red sheen of the tainted air and a meager light the room had to offer.

Oh, she'd notice, would she? This high-minded, self-entitled tourist… All wrapped up in that riot armor, thinking _she_ is some kind of expert on the local fauna after surviving a couple of days in the Villa just because she had a _radar_, when he had survived for decades! _Decades! _And wearing a tuxedo, no less. Now, that is called surviving with style!

"I'm surprised you can notice where you're stepping with that thing on," he gestured derisively at the, at this point, highly annoying black helmet which she had staunchly refused to remove to date. She did it only to aggravate him, no doubt about it.

So quickly she turned, walked – no, _sauntered _over him in such a single fluid motion that for a moment Dean believed she would slip into his lap. And there was a part of him that didn't mind the idea in the slightest. In fact, that insufferable, starved part of him he had long since put in the fridge, had optimally prepared for it. _Welcomed it!_ After all, when was the last time he had a decent pair of legs within arm's reach? Well, there _was_ Vera's hologram, but there was only so much he could do with a collection of photons.

The Courier didn't though, just leaned over him in, what in his mind was, patronizing manner.

"I wear protective gear. You wear these," her finger was quick and flicked lightly across the bridge of his sunglasses. It surprised him and he hit the back of his head against the wall behind. Not much, it didn't hurt… and he immediately pulled upright once he realized that he had _backpedalled_ from her touch. She didn't seem to notice, or pretended not to as was Dean's conclusion because it all had to be very deliberate, and had returned to trying to repair the machine.

He sneered at how nauseating it was. Dean Domino did not backpedal. He might make a tactical retreat or use the long way around, but he did not balk like a frightened schoolgirl. And what possessed her to constantly intrude upon his personal space bubble?! He felt ill prepared for this; which was absurd because Dean Domino had once been the master of the game – on top of it! Sierra Madre wasn't kind on his looks, but now it looked like his ability to charm was affected as well.

For all the excitement of the upcoming heist, of finally being able to plunder the very depths of Sierra Madre, he wished his luck had set him up with a different partner. This new _breed_ the Mojave cooked in its desert wasn't much to his liking. Too suspicious. Too easy on the trigger. Too greedy.

His head snapped up to the sound of familiar loud hissing and a thick metal clang coming from the outside. By the sound of it, it had to be the furthest one out. The Courier had reset some of the bear-traps they've encountered, quite obviously not trusting just his explosive touch to keep them safe – that tourist; and Dean suspected that one of the Ghost People had walked straight into one. Hopefully, it would serve as a warning to the rest to keep their distance. Unless they knew how to dismantle them. There was always that little worm of doubt, nagging, questioning… Making him wonder what _exactly_ did the Ghost People know to do? Still, there was always a second line of his explosive defense.

"They are crawling back in the streets out there. Your tinkering had better work, postman, or no hologram will be able to save us."

"I have a name, singer," she called from the table, her voice sapped of patience as she didn't want the bother of correcting him. Courier, postman… how would the ghoul stuck in a desert resort for 200 years know the difference in the new world? Couriers did more than just deliver mail. "I usually respond well to it."

"Not one for introductions, then. Manners must have gone the way of the bombs." Deep sarcasm was punctuated by him dragging in smoke of his cigar.

"You haven't asked."

"Me? I introduced myself when we've first met. I cannot say the opposite happened."

As a matter of fact, Elijah was the one to give her his name. He had given her all of their names. "Guilty."

"You certainly are."

She paused, lips pressed into a thin line under that helmet. "It is also my name."

Silence stretched like an old world rubber in the Mojave sun, only to be punctured by a cough and a puff of smoke. "Pardon?"

She let out a sigh, muffled by the headwear, and looked up to the cracked ceiling. She could still see the traces of the original color in between the peeling mortar. It was such a bad idea to tell him. There was a snigger behind her. The type of snigger that had a snigger all of its own; a capricious sound of superiority which could only be accredited to Dean Domino. Hell, he might own a patent of it.

"You're serious, aren't you?" More silence, as she was determent not to react. There was no point to it. After all, this was not the first time her name had run into this kind of reception. Raul, though, had a good sense not to say anything too obvious on the subject after she had just pried him out of Tabitha's large hands. Dean, lacking any such wisdom, snorted a twisted laugh. "Well, I wasn't far off the mark when I said your Ma thought you to be something special."

"I guess you weren't. Then again, being a _ghoul_ she had the time to cultivate intuition."

A sound of swift click of a jaw.

As predicted, the comment made him snap shut, and the moment stretched into a lengthy silence. Possibly an angry silence too, but she wouldn't allow herself to be distracted just now, not with the code being in shambles the way it was. Her offhand, if brutal, remark allowed her to work in peace for once. Hacking through the system which was on the verge of collapsing, she mulled over the choking strangeness of Sierra Madre and individuals she was forced to team up with. Big MT made her feel excitement and tantalizing fear at every turn, every facility a playground to be explored. Even the hazmat suits with its chattering bones and grinning skulls just made her grin in turn as she lined-up her sights. Sierra Madre now, this town made her fight for each breath and minute of her life. It might be equally enticing in some masochistic way… but, there was no Sink here to return to, to rest her feet and to let the chatting of its inhabitants lull her to sleep.

"How did that work exactly?"

Of course, it was only a matter of time before his curiosity got the better of him.

"How did what work exactly?"

"Ghoul. Being your mother. I can't imagine many family traits being passed down-…"

Guilty rested her hands at the sides of the keyboard so not to type some nonsense by accident and ruin the code, turned to stare at him and saw just how very busy he was with the act of not being interested. Legs crossed, eyes focused on the hole in the wall, cigar slightly crumpled between his fingers… She paused, wondering briefly if he truly couldn't guess or if he was just feigning ignorance at her expense. Neither of which she would put past him and both of which, as unlikely as that seemed, were probable at the same time. She had suspected, a while now actually, that unless he had a cordial relationship with other visitors in the Madre long enough to get around to speak with them, Dean likely had no idea what a ghoul was, how they came about and what they could ultimately end up as.

It was a little sad, not knowing what you were; where you stood in life and where life stood with you. Or on you.

"She ran an orphanage," the Courier said finally.

A genuine 'Oh' was the only answer she got and when she saw he was not going to comment further on it, out of embarrassment or some other reason, she continued with her repairs.

After minutes just kept dragging on, a bright command suddenly flashed on the screen bringing her back from her fatigued thoughts – 'Activate Hologram', it said and it was what she had been searching for. But by the time she finally reached the backup systems she grumbled with dissatisfaction at the nasty realization, a joyful moment was ruined. "This terminal controls only one of those light switches."

"Well then, you better hope that the other one is in pristine working condition," he stated casually – as of course, he would not be the one to do any fixing. What startled her was how crisp clear and close his voice was to where her ear would be. Glancing around, she realized that Dean was practically leaning over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed at the uncharacteristic behavior.

"Wish I was that lucky," she breathed deeply picking up her rifle as he pulled back – not too much, she could still taste the cigar smoke in her mouth. The black helmet starred at him, possibly contemplating how much longer they were going to spend at each other's delightful company, and then nodded at the rickety, makeshift walkways along the edges of the buildings, as they prepared to head out once more. "Stay close."

"Oh yes. Wouldn't want to get too far away from your _useful_ _radar_, now would I? I might take a wrong turn and you could mistake me for some rare monster lurking in the shadows of Sierra Madre."

The faceless black helmet starred at him unblinking; unnerving. "Oh, I'd never make a rookie mistake like that, Mr. Domino," she drawled in a cocky tone. "Not unless I was up to no good," and with that she hopped through the hole, and out into the Cloud. "Just try to keep up!"

"Like dancing with your shadow." Puff of smoke covered his face like a stage mask, wrapping around any and all scorn that might have welled up, as they descended onto lightless streets.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you all for reading and reviewing.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Dean was the one to step out of their cozy shelter first, surprisingly enough, and stood at the edge of the thick curtain swirling and clogging the small underpass just hair breadth in front of his face. He fingered the lighter and near empty paper box in his pocket, slightly crushed and creased from constant use. Probably not a good time to light a cigarette, he decided. Besides, she'd say something, do something and he'd just be forced to spit it out. He didn't fancy wasting all his chips on her.

Behind him, the Courier stepped lightly over a zigzag pattern made of bear traps and proximity mines. "We'll have to leave the explosives here," she said in a brisk, moody voice, or at least that's how the ghoul had interpreted it. The hell if he could read anything about her beyond 'aggravating' and 'out to get him'. That little tidbit she tossed in front of him told him absolutely nothing. Of course there were orphans left and right after the war! What did she expect of him to feel? Compassion? Consideration? Certainly not!

So far, it all had left him with astonishingly little leverage, and there were no words to describe how utterly unsettli-… no, he'd rather pass on that word. How furious that made him.

"Yes. Let's leave the only thing that can properly kill the bastards behind. It's only a smart thing to do," the ghoul's sarcasm could have glued the walls of the Villa back together. Dean glanced at his handiwork. He had made most of the proximity mines; she had merely reset the bear traps. But something gnawed on him. The tourist carried around too many of the things he needed to assemble it.

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes narrowed at the black clad figure. Bulky, and almost as tall as he was. Cocky, unfazed, with confidence reeking to high heaven – even over the smelly concoction that was the Cloud...

"It was an observation." Guilty was no stranger to leaving useful resources behind, but even after all these years it still felt like a radscorpion's sting. Sometimes it was for the best, though. Sometimes, being fast, being mobile, being small and unloaded was what got you through the narrow gorge patrolled by Raiders. In hindsight, they might have overdone it a tad on the number of explosives necessary to keep them safe, but they were in there for far longer than either of them would've liked.

There was something to his argument of course, and while the mines were not too heavy to weight either of them down, they were still bulky and they took up valuable space and Guilty carried something with her, something she had no intention of throwing out, no matter how many Ghost People these bombs could clear out. In the end, she did pull two of the mines down and handed them over to him.

"My pack is full. If you have place for more..." The black armor shrugged. He sniffed and when she pushed past him, her shoulder nudged him none-too-gently in the tight space of peeling paint and furniture covered with red dust, and she dove forward with pip-boy in front of her, amber glow coming from the screen. His mouth twisted at her order, her ill-mannered shove, deliberate lack of respect for his personal space – it had to be deliberate – but the lounge singer stayed behind for a moment, his eyes firmly glued to the bombs.

Yes. Cigar was in order.

:*.*.*.*.*:

Characteristically for him, and unlike that of his partner, the ghoul's eyes were tightly focused on the shadows of the Cloud ahead. The minuscule movements, the way very air curled around that corner, how beyond that one trap no other had been sprung in their tight net... No. Something wasn't the way it appeared to be. The way it should be. And Dean Domino had 200 years of experience to back his gut feeling up.

He knew that Sierra Madre didn't let people walk her streets freely, without fear.

Maybe it was the sheer desire manifested – for him to be right, for her to be wrong – but it was more than a coincidence and still less than something... pre-planned. Either way the chip fell, their way back to the other side of the district was not as fortunate as the time they were first spent looking for this building.

They've entered the small courtyard. It felt like just a bare few minutes since they've walked out of the boundary of their makeshift defense made of traps and mines and entered a space enclosed on all sides; a rickety terrace above and only two archways on the opposite ends leading out and down the street. And there it happened.

It wasn't known to – likely because there were no lingering survivors; or ever-inquisitive scientists to prattle about the strange behavior of Sierra Madre's illusive residents; or that Dean, ever prudent as he was, had never incurred that kind of attention – but the creatures inhabiting the hazmat suits now were not completely divorced of their sanity. They have sensed, smelled or tasted in the air that something was going on. They knew, heaven only knows how, that there was a creature in their territory, their streets, which chipped at their numbers.

The Ghost People waited for them, silent and still, staying clear of traps and laying an ambush for the living.

To her surprise, it was Domino who pushed her, roughly, out of the way of spears and a gas bomb flying past her head. It exploded, deafening both of them and lighting the street, making the Cloud swirl as the flames gobbled on it. As debris mixed of crushed building blocks and old chairs, tables and one broken radio from the floor above fell around them, they each landed behind a column supporting the building enclosing the narrow street. Whirlwind sounds of spears flying over their heads, clangs as they hit the old pillars of plaster and brick the two used as cover, or just narrowly missing the face while trying to ascertain just how bad, how quickly their situation had suddenly wound up, were just some on the list of things gone horribly wrong.

The suits hopped down from the terrace and sprang out from the shadows, swaying and jerking with each motion and each ragged breath drawn in through their mask. There were four on the ground now and at least three more on the balcony above, with handmade spears and handmade bombs. There was no telling how many more there may yet be in the building itself; and neither the Courier nor Dean had the luxury of forgetting the street they've just came up from.

"_'There are none near the building,' _she says," the ghoul mocked. "I hope you're ready to eat those words up now, tourist!" He called from behind the other pillar. His voice, filled with perverse pleasure at her making a crucial mistake even at the time when his life was on the line, was muffled against the still swirling dust. He managed to catch a glimpse of her as she fiddled with that oversized wristwatch before all but throwing it to the side as much as she could with it being bound to her wrist. Oh, he'd savor this moment of confusion in her; this crack in her perfect armor of knowledge if only he hadn't been the one caught in crossfire of her single-minded stupidity as well. He'd rub it in later. If there was later...

No. He _needed_ for there to be later.

Guilty had no time for singer's biting words and let them slide off of her as she ducked at the incoming spears; perpetually sharp edges taking off chunks of brick and plaster with a clang of noise that promised body parts being sliced off with ease. In a flash of moment her mind went to Cook-Cook, but all that did was act as a catalyst to her want for the sight of Ghost People piled on top of each other and a match to light the bonfire.

Back flat against the column she switched the ammunition on her holorifle and while Domino couldn't see exactly what she was doing he did note, with much infuriation, that whatever it was, she was doing it with calm of spreading out sheets to dry.

Of all the...!

The ghoul wanted to rage but Dean couldn't watch the spectacle now. All he had was a gun, and a couple of proximity mines, and a gun wasn't very useful right now. But he'd have to throw them, or place them or do _something_, otherwise they would explode at the first jerky movement of those walking nightmares and in _his_ face. And – a gas bomb exploded somewhere to the left of him, making his ears bleed, showering him in dust, smoke and resulted in his sunglasses tittering tilted across the bridge of his nose – it was just simply not worth it. Almost opting to throw them away he, nevertheless, quickly shoved them back in his pack. He had to get out.

In the commotion and cacophony of loud noises, one managed to shuffle its way over to the Courier's position, bear trap strapped to its arm lashed out from an impossible angle and she ducked, pulled back and slid away from each of its strikes, slipping out from her cover and into full view. Her foot came up, heel digging in one glowing eye and she kicked it back with all her strength. Then came the holorifle with its new set of ammunition and with blast of toxic green glow, the creature turned into a mass of slime and dust, curtaining all over her, sticking to her black suit and mixing with the red of the air. Others paused at the clear, burning sight of the explosion, yet it didn't make them stop. They were growing ever closer and she knew, they both did as their eyes swept over the gangly crowd whispering, that they couldn't risk staying here for much longer.

At that moment when he was looking for an opening for an escape, Dean looked up at her, at the smooth blackness, and then... she disappeared! And just a handful of steps into the circle of the beasts, one screamed or let out a sound that was supposed to signify one, its arm hanging by the threads of the suit. It collapsed like a ragdoll. One breath later, when the two remaining swirled towards the oozing body with a screech and eager wheezing, a blade flashed briefly before digging just below the knee of one of them.

Ghoul's brows knitted together harshly. Oh, so bloody typical. This was all a momentary surprise to her. Nothing to fuss over. No need to rush. It was only _his_ life on the line.

The suit collapsed, bubbly liquid squirted all over her revealing the contours of her invisible form – not unnoticed by the ones on terrace – and the Courier used the momentum to grab the fallen spear and pivot, landing the tip at the base of the throat, at the seam of mask and suit, and tore through! Like she was on a stage, a mysterious stranger clad in black swooping in to save the day, and the shower of spears and explosions blasted around her were just the effects for the show. The sheer nerve…

Suicidal and show off. _Couldn't the woman act like a normal human being for once?!_

But he did use her reckless behavior to run from one pillar to the next – to any that would lead him closer to edge of the bomb and spear throwing degenerates on the terrace, who now had their gas masks only on her, and closer to open street where he could run for his life. And he didn't shoot at any of them. Because shooting would draw attention to him and it would be a shame to waste her suicidal efforts.

Dean Domino duck and vaulted and did all the things a proper stage star wouldn't do. Wouldn't know how to; wouldn't be caught dead doing unless the front page was involved somehow. He found a pile of rubble and old furniture to take cover behind. Short of breath he leaned to his side of the rubble guarding him as hissing and scuffling and gurgling drew closer. He thought he was – not safe, but unnoticed – when he saw that the way ahead was dotted with several pairs of green dots slowly grabbing forward through the red fog. Panic climbed up his spine like it was a ladder.

It was blocked. The way forward was blocked! And the way behind, he couldn't see from where he was, but it too was surly as well…

They were trapped – **_he_** was trapped. **_She_** got him trapped!

He swore – bomb collar or no – once he had his hands on her-…!

"Tell me you didn't throw away those mines?"

He heard a voice next to his ear, a whisper, and it was like ice crawling over his overheated sides. Dean's mind made a wide circle around the implications, around the possibilities of closeness and whispering and all that thoughts not at all favorable for this moment because that voice next to him also meant that other things would soon follow her… and _how did she know about that?!_

"You mean the ones you wanted to leave behind?"

"I mean the two I plopped in your hands."

"Wasn't that generous of you? I don't see how two mines are going to hel-…!?"

She pulled him to the side, spears cutting into the brick where he just sat. Whichever way they turned, the Ghost People seemed determent to drag them away this time. He huffed, breathed deeply and coughed.

"Aren't they persistent," he heard her, heard a _grin_ in her voice, and was tempted to offer a scalding rebuttal when her gloved fingers curled around the base of his head, over his rough skin shutting him up, making his thoughts stutter. "The way back is still open. Come on." Dean was forced to look up as she turned his head, not gently at all, towards the direction they've come from, before realizing what she had in mind.

Scattered among the bodies, several unused gas bombs were left lying around the patio. If his mines went off in the middle of that the result would be quite spectacular. Not to mention it would save their hides. Dean nodded grudgingly. He could do that. Make such a bang no one would dare follow them for a short while. Give them enough time to slip away.

The Courier had started it, started too many things his mind took a delight in noting, but Dean had no intention to underperform - an especially silly thing to think about now. He would be the one to finish it. The resulting explosion, he was aware, will be strong enough to bring down the adjoined pillars and the terrace they supported. He had pulled out the pair of mines at the same time as another creature holding the gas tank dropped from the upper floor. Of course the ghosts could never suffer a broken leg, or something.

The Courier nodded and they leaned out of the cover, just enough for the singer-turned-demolitions-expert to toss the mines in dead center of the carnage and for the Courier to hit them with the blast from her holorifle.

It was as he predicted. The ground shook, the air rushed around them and even behind cover the blast pulled at some of his dried skin off. The air grew so thick it filled the inside of her helmet, her nose and mouth. Even Dean, who was used to its toxicity felt overwhelmed and, so quickly they were tripping over their feet, they scampered away to a place where they could actually breathe. Just outside of the archway leading out Guilty appeared next to him, from thin air almost, her rifle propped up in one hand and the other propped on her waist. She looked like a burnt statue, black and faceless.

There were sounds behind them. They weren't human and they weren't happy, but what they did was carry a promise of a fate far worse than being stuffed in a suit and mutating into an abomination.

Dean wasted not a moment this time around. His arm inexplicably landed around her waist and he pushed and pulled her in the sole direction leading out of the cramped alleyway, the way they came from. He wasn't going to die here. His instinct for self-preservation wouldn't allow it.

"We need to get away before more swarm the streets." His tone was of one who had seen similar situation unfold, from a safe distance truth to be told, and did not wish to stay for the closing act. For once, it brooked no argument.

Guilty agreed, but it was grudging on her part. She wanted to finish them - those that were whole but lying motionless on the ground – or as many of them as humanly possible. She knew it wasn't feasible or smart, and would accomplish even less than making a dent in their numbers. She coughed looking back around to chaotic dust swirl behind them, but Dean pulled at her, preventing any possibility of going back.

She didn't know if she could argue with him because she still refused to believe that there could be so many of them surviving all these years – it was not physically possible - but there was something on her side, other than his hand pressed where her ribs would be were it not for protective casing; that burned and felt sticky and demanded attention. She intended to do so. Later.

"That hologram's all lit up, isn't it?" He asked pulling her further down the alleyways he knew so well, despite constantly reinforcing how he wouldn't be caught dead in this murderous part of town.

"It is."

"And you made sure it's not going to shoot on us?"

"Maybe." She felt his grip tighten furiously, fingers digging in and pain lashing up through her side at her half-joking, half-questioning jab. "It will on them."

Together with hisses and cries of pain, flame mixed with the Cloud brought up ash and debris, and covered the escape of the only two living creatures.


End file.
